


It's a Funny Old Game

by WelpThisIsHappening



Series: Out of the Frying Pan [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Celebrity, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2018-12-31 17:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12137949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WelpThisIsHappening/pseuds/WelpThisIsHappening
Summary: Killian's not sure why he agreed to this. Well, no, that's not true. He does. Because Henry asked. And, well, maybe they're some kind of family now.Emma's not sure why she hasn't said anything. Well, no, that's not true. She does. Because she's not supposed to. And, well, things were pretty good already.Or: A quasi Out of the Frying Pan sequel with soccer.





	1. Chapter 1

“You’ve got to do it!”  
  
“I’m not.”  
  
“He’ll probably break his foot anyway.”  
  
Killian rolled his eyes, glancing over his shoulder to glare at Will who just shrugged in response, the hint of a smile on his face when he flipped a towel over his shoulder. “You’re fired,” Killian said evenly, some of his frustration ebbing when he heard Henry’s laughter.

“You are no longer in a position to do that,” Will argued. “I’m part of the money now. You’ve lost all your power, Cap.”  
  
The frustration was back.

Killian groaned, letting his head fall back and they absolutely did not have time for this. The restaurant was packed and Ariel was...somewhere. He had no idea where Ariel was. He’d lost complete control of his staff.

Not that they really were his staff anymore. At least not technically. They were partners or equals or some kind of ridiculous team which, considering the small stack of paper on the corner of the bar, almost made the most sense.

“You’re really not going to do it?” Henry asked again, but with a hint of disappointment that made Killian wince.

Will chuckled – like he knew he’d won.

“Does Gina know that’s here?” Killian asked, not sure who he was directing the question to exactly and it would probably be wrong to just start drinking straight out of the rum bottle when Henry was sitting there.

He was...Killian wasn’t sure what the technical term for it was.

That seemed like a trend.

This, however, was a bit less problematic than not knowing where his hostess was on a jam-packed Friday night. This was nice and domestic and, well, maybe Killian had considered qualifiers that were far too big to actually say out loud, but he thought them all the same and if there was a reason to play a charity soccer game, playing for Henry seemed like the best one.

“I don’t know,” Henry said, answering the question Killian had forgotten he’d even asked. “She was in the studio this afternoon.”  
  
“Wait, backtrack. Were you in the studio this afternoon?”  
  
Henry nodded. “Only for a little while, Mom had to film, but we got lunch before I helped M&M’s watch Leo so she could decorate her classroom.”  
  
“Right, right, right,” Killian muttered, closing his eyes lightly to try and picture the schedule on the front of the refrigerator three blocks downtown.

There was a regularly-updated schedule on the front of the refrigerator.

In their apartment.

The one they’d been living in for nearly a year – in some kind of vaguely perfect, decidedly familial domestic bubble.

“Has he gotten over that squash thing?” Killian asked and Henry’s answering smile nearly took up his entire face.

“No. It’s still the only thing he’ll eat. M&M’s asked if you or Mom could make something else. Try and get him _off the squash_ or something. I don’t know, I was trying to make sure I hung all her posters straight.”  
  
“Did you?”  
  
“I mean, obviously.”  
  
“Obviously,” Killian repeated, a poor imitation of Henry’s voice and it wasn’t exactly teenage angst yet, but Henry _was_ fourteen and the last thing he likely wanted to be doing on one of the few Fridays left in summer vacation was helping his aunt hang posters in her classroom. “And Mary Margaret realizes that Leo is only a little over a year old, right? It’s not like he’s got some kind of expressive palate or anything.”

“Yeah, I don’t think she gets that. You guys cook. She thinks you can get him to eat something.”  
  
“Like...Cheerios?”  
  
“Do a lot of one year olds eat Cheerios?”  
  
“I honestly have no idea.”  
  
“Huh,” Henry said and Killian got the distinct impression that there was more to those three words than he was letting on. “And, by the way, this whole thing was Gina’s idea.”  
  
Will’s whole body shook with the force of his laughter on the other side of the bar, leaning over the counter to take orders and, probably, flirt with Belle, who’d, apparently, learned how to teleport because Killian didn’t even notice the door open.

He really needed to find Ariel.

And maybe get back in the kitchen.

A year after the expansion and things were, finally, starting to settle again – Eric coming up short of a round dozen on the _meltdown_ scale and there hadn’t been a menu issue in, at least, six weeks and the new sous chefs they’d hired, in both locations, were proving to be competent.

Killian had been a finalist for the Beard that spring and they went to the ceremony and Emma bought another ridiculously gorgeous dress and he’d nearly asked her there.

It was close – the words nearly falling off his tongue as soon as she walked down the hallway and Killian felt his eyes go wide and he hadn’t even _bought_ anything, but the question, much like Henry’s qualifiers, had been bouncing around his head since he left the first pile of clothes in her apartment, so it wasn’t really surprising.

The surprising part was that he didn’t. Or hadn’t. For the last four months.

He’d bought a ring a week before.

He’d asked Henry for help.

Henry was still staring at him. “I don’t think I was supposed to tell you that part though,” he admitted and Killian hummed in agreement. “And the only reason I know is because Rol told me, like, a week ago. He was super excited.”  
  
“Ah, well, now you’re done for, Cap,” Will muttered, pouring two shot glasses of something that might have been scotch and pushing it towards Killian. He raised his hands in some poor attempt at _parental figure,_ but Will shook his head, lower lip jutted out and just tapped his finger on the bar. “You’re going to need this,” Will continued. “When you embarrass yourself at Yankee Stadium, at least you’ll have vaguely pleasant memories of how it all started.”  
  
Killian heard the door swing open that time – glancing up to find Regina and Robin weaving their way through tables, Roland all but sprinting towards Henry who jumped off his stool out of instinct to catch the eight-year-old around the waist.

“Is he going to do it?” Roland shouted, drawing the attention of half the dining room. No wonder Killian didn’t win a Beard – he was running the least organized restaurant in the entire Tri-State area.

“Did you guys see Ari when you just barreled in here?” he asked, hoping if he started asking questions first he’d be able to control the conversation.

No such luck.

“Don’t play that card, Jones,” Regina warned. “It’s not going to work. You’ve already agreed.”  
  
“God, Gina, that’s not how this works. You are not actually my agent. I don’t have an agent. You are a producer on a show I only occasionally appear on.”  
  
“Do you think you should have an agent?” Robin asked, dropping onto a stool and trying to wave down Will who was too busy flirting with Belle to notice. “You should probably have an agent right, you know, someone who would, like, organize your life or something.”  
  
“Are you suggesting my life needs organizing, Locksley?”  
  
Robin shrugged. “You don’t know where A is.”  
  
“Do you?”  
  
“No, but this isn’t my dinner service. Or my potentially broken legs when you play soccer in two weeks.”  
  
“Why does everyone keep thinking I’m going to break my legs? I know how to walk!”  
  
Robin made a face and Will was probably never going to stop laughing. Regina was already reading the paperwork like she hadn’t already forged Killian’s signature on everything. He’d probably waived his right to sue if he did break his legs.

“I only said you were going to break your foot, Cap,” Will argued. “Locksley’s the one who used legs and plural, by the way, as in you are, somehow, going to break both of your legs at once. I’m clearly the better partner.”  
  
“Oh my God,” Killian sighed, downing the entire shot glass in one gulp. Definitely scotch. It burned his throat.

“Aren’t you going to play, Uncle Killian?” Roland asked. He’d managed to climb up onto Henry’s legs and was doing his best to get onto the bar, half an inch away from six different mixed drinks and one plate of onion rings.

Killian sighed, running his hand over his face and pressing his fingers into his cheekbones. He looked up to find matching expressions of something that was decidedly unfair on both Henry and Roland’s faces and Will was right.

There was absolutely no fighting that.

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, Gina already signed me up, right? Or agreed? Or volunteered? Sold my soul?”  
  
“It was almost funny until you decided to just be rude,” Regina muttered, barely lifting her eyes away from the paper in front of her. “And I didn’t agree because, as you were so quick to point out, I am not your agent, but people do like to come to me with suggestions for your life, personal or otherwise, so maybe this game isn’t an absolutely terrible idea.”  
  
“That was almost heavy-handed.”  
  
“It’s because I’ve been sitting here for nearly five minutes and I still don’t have a martini.”  
  
“That seems to suggest the presence of a martini would stop you from judging everything I’m doing.”  
  
“Or not doing,” Robin amended. Killian rolled his eyes, resisting the temptation to pour himself another shot. Or just leave his restaurant in the middle of a dinner service. “You know, for, like, the last six months.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?” Killian gaped and Henry sounded like he was actually trying to swallow down his laughter.

Roland grumbled when Henry couldn’t actually hold onto him, half on the bar and half on the fourteen-year-old and Killian reached forward before one of them ended up with a broken bone and he only wince slightly when he felt the full brunt of Roland’s weight land on his hip.

“God,” Killian groaned, twisting his arm and Roland was going to choke him. That would get him out of the game. “You are a grown adult.”  
  
“Uncle Killian, you’ve got to play,” Roland shouted in his ear. “Emma said she thought it would be fun and we could go to Yankee Stadium and get ice cream in hats.”  
  
“I don’t think she said hats, Rol,” Henry said reasonably. “And they’d put the ice cream in like...soccer balls, right? I mean, it wouldn’t be a Yankee game.”  
  
“It’s at Yankee Stadium?” Killian asked, another question just addressed to the masses.

Regina clicked her tongue, waving her hand at the distinct lack of a martini in front of her. “Do your job.”  
  
“I’m already not doing my job, which is to actually cook some of the food that comes out of that kitchen. Answer my question, Gina.”  
  
“How do you not know this already? Did you not actually read any of the paperwork?”  
  
“No.”  
  
She sighed as if she’d been personally offended by his lack of reading comprehension in the middle of a dinner service, but she didn’t actually say anything, interrupted by the door again and Killian felt like he started to breathe as soon as he noticed Emma.

It wasn’t like they hadn’t talked about it.

Or, well, they hadn’t actually used the _specific_ words, but they’d kind of danced around the subject, especially when Leo turned one and there was a birthday party and they’d been tasked with making the cake. They used the oven in the Jolly – Henry at a friend’s house for the night and there’d been some kind of volcano of flour that erupted at one point and Emma’s hair looked more white than blonde by the end of it and Killian was fairly certain the jeans he’d been wearing would always be a bit discolored.

But they’d kind of talked about it then. Almost. In between throwing flour and sugar and, at one point, frosting and all Killian really remembered about that night was sliding down the far wall in the kitchen with Emma tucked against his side and they spent, at least, fifteen minutes sitting on the floor and making out like teenagers while they waited for the cake to cool off.

They stayed upstairs. It was easier. And that bed was closer. Even if it didn’t have actual sheets on it anymore.

“Hey,” Emma said brightly, wrapping an arm around Henry’s front and grinning when he made a decidedly teenage noise in the back of his throat. “You get Leo to eat something other than that gross squash stuff?”  
  
“I don’t think you’re supposed to call it gross squash stuff, Swan,” Killian muttered and Regina was going to have some kind of conniption if she didn’t get her martini. “Oh my God, Gina, relax. Here,” he growled, trying to move Roland to his other side and grabbing a glass and slamming into the counter. She put the papers down. “How many olives?”  
  
“Four.”  
  
“You are doing this just to be difficult.”

“Agree to this thing.”  
  
Emma quirked an eyebrow, hooking her chin over Henry’s shoulder and he stopped arguing any of the decidedly _maternal_ things going on. “What thing?” she asked, but Killian brushed her off, stabbing a fork into the container of olives under the bar.

“Nothing, love. She knows I’m going to play. She knew as soon as she told Henry. How was filming? And promo?”  
  
“Fine. ‘Ish. Isn’t Ruby here yet? She was supposed to come after she finished b-roll stuff with El. I figured she’d be here a million years before I got here.”  
  
“What was the ‘ish part?”  
  
“Are you interviewing me?” Emma asked and she was still smiling and he couldn’t think when she did that. Or when he was trying to ignore whatever Robin was muttering underneath his breath.

“Once more with conviction, Locksley,” Killian hissed. He put five olives in Regina’s martini. She did not look impressed.

Robin rolled his eyes, rubbing the heel of his hand into his chin. “I said that you are interviewing Emma who, per Ruby’s demands on her restock invoice, did great on both filming and promo, because you are trying to deflect any of our questions about why you don’t want to do this thing. You’re old hat at charity stuff now. This should be a piece of cake.”  
  
He laughed at his own joke and Henry tried not to make noise again, but it didn’t really work. “And,” Robin continued. “I’d like whatever you have on tap that you consider good.”  
  
“There are five different things on tap right now, Locksley,” Killian said. “Make a decision like an actual human being.”  
  
He pointed his finger at Killian, pushing up to lean over the bar and stab him in the chest. Killian growled, burying his face in Roland’s back and that wasn’t really going to do anything except infuriate an eight-year-old who probably wanted a cheeseburger and a new soccer jersey.

“Who’s it for?” Killian asked. He should be writing these questions down. He should really be cooking, but that was neither here nor there and none of the tables looked like wanted to riot yet, so maybe it was still going alright.

“Montefiore,” Regina answered immediately. “Children’s hospital in the Bronx.”  
  
“Of course it is.”  
  
“Sound like more of an ass when you say that, please, I dare you.”  
  
Killian made a face, pulling his forehead away from Roland’s shoulder and Regina almost looked repentant. She took a very long drink and Killian tried not to glance at Henry’s expectant face.

“Two weeks?”

Regina nodded. “And a day, so you’ve got an extra twenty-four hours of training so you don’t actually injure yourself because you really shouldn’t injure yourself. That wouldn’t bode well for IC scheduling.”  
  
“When do you film again?” Emma asked and Killian gaped at her like she’d just tried to give up the location of the American forces to General Burgoyne. No one else in that restaurant would probably get that reference. Except for Henry. Who was actually incredibly interested in history and absurdly good at remembering dates and maybe Killian shouldn’t have danced around _major subjects_ while baking cakes for quasi-nephews who could be actual nephews if they’d just _talk about it._

Emma shrugged, eyes flashing up towards him and the smile had turned just a bit mischievous. “What?” she asked. “That’s a genuine question. When’s the last time you filmed?”  
  
“I’ve been kind of busy,” Killian started, but Regina interrupted him before he could come up with a more detailed excuse.

“Two months, three weeks and…” She clicked her tongue, squeezing one eye closed and Killian felt his cheeks flush. Ariel was still missing in dinner-service action. “Uh, four days. So, really, closer to three months if you want to round up.”  
  
“That’s insubordination, Lieutenant,” Emma grinned.

He eyed her with something he hoped felt like the force of several _universes_ and Emma stood up to her full height, lip tugged tightly between her teeth. “You should really play,” she continued, taking a step away from Henry and working her way around the bar. “It could be fun. And I’m fairly confident you won’t actually break any bones.”

“Fairly confident,” Killian repeated, letting his only free hand fall to her hip when she moved in front of him.

“So…” Henry said. “Ice cream in helmets?”

Emma’s head snapped towards him, hands flat against Killian’s chest. Henry smiled. “How do you know about ice cream in helmets?”  
  
“Mom, c’mon, you’ve got to be here for the start of these conversations. Otherwise you’re going to miss everything. And Rol wants ice cream in helmets. You’re the one who said helmets, right?”

“Yeah.”  
  
“It’s got to be soccer balls,” Killian said again. “It’s a soccer game. They don’t sell ice cream in Yankee helmets when it’s NYCFC.”  
  
Emma’s eyebrows shifted slightly. “Are you comparing yourself to NYCFC right now?”  
  
“Swan, I didn’t even want to play in the game until Henry mentioned it. I was just going to ignore Gina until she murdered me or something.”  
  
“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Gina mumbled, tapping her nail against the side of her glass. “Plus, we’re financially invested in your livelihood more than ever now. You give Robin those statements you were supposed to?”  
  
“I know how to run my restaurant, Regina.”  
  
The smile inched across her face when he dropped the nickname and Killian wasn’t sure how he was losing every conversation he was having. He kind of wished he had another birthday cake to bake for a one-year-old.

“That wasn’t an answer,” Regina pointed out. “Less olives this time. I barely had anything to drink before.”  
  
“Alright, relax,” Emma muttered, grabbing the glass out of Regina’s hand and dumping out the leftover olives and few drops of gin. “The statements are, literally, sitting on the counter at home. If you guys are going to eat here then I can walk down and get ‘em before you leave. Cool?”  
  
Regina blinked once, eyes darting towards Will when he couldn't quite control his laughter. “Yeah,” she said brusquely. “That’s cool.”  
  
“Good. You eat yet, kid?” Emma asked, glancing towards Henry.

“Killian made onion rings,” he answered. “We were waiting for you.”

Emma’s whole face shifted immediately – any hint of irritation over Regina or statements all but evaporating and they were _making money_ already in Gowanus, which seemed like some kind of sign, but Killian didn’t like to think about it too much, certain he’d jinx it if they did.

He wasn’t sure _what_ he’d jinx, exactly, but it had anything to do with Emma or the look on her face or whatever Killian’s stomach still did every time she walked into the Jolly or the apartment three blocks downtown that they both so casually called _home_ , he was willing to stay silent for the rest of his life, determined to preserve this in some kind of indefinite way.

And he was absolutely going to play this soccer game for Henry.

“What do you want?” Killian asked, somehow managing to keep Roland hitched on his side and half hanging over his shoulder at the same time he worked his arm around Emma’s waist.

He was fairly positive she leaned back against him.

“Whatever,” Henry said noncommittally and Killian resisted the urge to groan. Emma didn’t.

“We can’t actually make you whatever,” Emma laughed. “You need a menu or something?”  
  
“There's mac and cheese,” Killian said. Roland nearly flew off him and straight into the kitchen. “Jeez, mate, calm down. No one is going to stop you from getting mac and cheese. That work for you, Henry?”  
  
Henry nodded, moving when Roland climbed back down Killian’s side and, eventually, they were going to have to figure out when those two just became...inseparable. Henry didn’t seem to realize he was, absolutely, Roland Locksley’s hero.

And they were both through some metaphorical roof at the prospect of mac and cheese.

“You want me to sign whatever waiver I have to sign before I make your kid food or after, Gina?” Killian asked, voice practically dripping with sarcasm.

She hardly even blinked.  
  
“After is fine, thank you, Jones.”  
  
“Naturally,” he murmured, leaning forward slightly and he knew he’d won when Regina _huffed_ softly. “What do you want, Swan?”  
  
Emma looked surprised he’d actually asked her, blinking twice and her mouth opened slightly like she was considering her answer. “Wait, what?”

“Food, love. What do you want to eat?”  
  
“Oh, I can...I can help.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“This is the least productive conversation in the world.”  
  
“Swan, you filmed all day. There was an _‘ish_ to the description of how today went. The last thing you need to do is cook your own food.”  
  
“I honestly don’t mind,” she promised, tugging lightly on the front of his jacket and her cheeks were slightly redder than they should have been. There was something going on. “And, A’s standing outside on the phone with the babysitter by the way. She didn’t think you noticed.”  
  
“I absolutely did and she should probably mention she’s actually leaving before she leaves.”  
  
Will scoffed, shaking a mixer and handing Regina another martini. “Please, Cap, any threat you issue to A is going to be even less intimidating than whatever you tried to tell me before.”  
  
“What did you try to tell him before?” Emma asked.

Killian shrugged. “I fired him.”  
  
“Oh my God. You’re the one who needs to cook. Chop up all that excess frustration.”  
  
“That might be true.”  
  
“C’mon. We’ll go make sure the mac and cheese is good.”  
  
Emma did, eventually, walk three blocks downtown to get statements and charts and invoices for suppliers that Robin knew – pointedly ignoring Killian’s promises that he could do it, rolling her eyes good naturedly and pressing a kiss against his cheek before letting the kitchen door swing shut behind her.

And Ariel did eventually come inside, a knowing look on her face that did not appear to be someone who just spent forty-five minutes on the phone with her babysitter. “Where have you been, Ari?” Killian asked, back behind the bar after service ended.

Henry was asleep in a booth in the corner of the dining room.

“Around,” she answered evasively. “You talk to Emma yet?”  
  
“She’s in the kitchen. And, yes, obviously. She’s been here all night. Unlike some hostess I know.”  
  
“Oh, that was almost rude. What’s the deal with this game? Are you going to play? Is the network going to promo it? Gina said they probably would.”  
  
Killian leaned against the counter, pain shooting through both of his elbows when they all but crashed against the wood. Ariel widened her eyes, jumping up onto the edge and he didn’t even try to argue. “Of course she did,” he grumbled. “Did everyone know about this before I did then?”

“Nah, not really. I don’t think Eric knows.”  
  
“He’s in another borough, that doesn’t really count.”  
  
“You’ve got to take your victories where you can, Killian,” she said. “And the only reason I knew about it was because Henry was so excited. It was all he was talking about when he was sitting here with Scarlet before. You might actually be that kid’s hero if you play.”  
  
Killian’s stomach did something absurd and his heart seemed to take that particular sentence as a challenge, beating out an inconsistent rhythm against his lungs. That absolutely was not how his heart worked.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Ariel smiled, like she was a keeping a secret or she was masquerading as the Cheshire cat. “Go tell your girlfriend you’re crazy in love with her and want to adopt her kid and the reason you’re nervous to play in this ridiculous charity game is because you don’t want to embarrass the family in some Godfather-type way.”  
  
“I don’t think we’re the mafia, Ari.”  
  
She shrugged. “Eh, like a cooking powerhouse family. Who’s making a shit ton of money.”  
  
“Eloquent.”  
  
“Go talk to Emma. And clean your own kitchen. God.”  
  
Killian saluted, rolling his shoulders back until he was almost standing at attention and Ariel’s smile turned a bit more like she was dealing with her toddler instead of a Beard Award nominee.

“Go home, Ari,” Killian called over his shoulder, grabbing his coat from the peg in the hallway to drape over Henry’s back.

Emma didn’t move when the door hit the wall, humming softly under her breath and she might have been bobbing on her heels slightly. Her sneakers squeaked when she moved.

She’d tugged her hair up at some point, the elastic barely holding it up and most of it was draped over her shoulder, but there were a few strands hanging across her neck and Killian felt his eyes widen when he noticed the streak of flour on her leg.

He took a step forward, glancing down at the pile of apron tossed a few feet behind her and the wide eyes were joined by an even wider smile.

She was baking.

In the middle of his restaurant kitchen. Like she owned it. Maybe she should. Maybe he should ask about that too.

“Smells good,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around her waist and she didn’t jump. She definitely leaned back.

Emma scoffed or maybe laughed, but Killian was certain he could feel it in every inch of him and Henry was asleep twenty-five feet away, only one not-quite-thick kitchen door between them. “Cookies,” she said softly, but her voice caught when he brushed his nose against her ear. “The most basic recipe I could remember.”  
  
“Are you stress-baking, love?”  
  
“No, no. I mean, kind of.”  
  
“Kind of?” Killian asked, letting his fingers trail across the front of her stomach and Emma’s shoulders shifted. “How exactly does that work?”  
  
“I wasn’t really stress baking for me.”  
  
Killian’s smile, somehow, got even wider, pressed against the side of Emma’s neck and she mumbled something about _the batter_ before throwing the entire bowl on the counter, twisting around and pushing up on her toes and he barely took a breath before she was kissing him.

She was still wearing the clothes she’d been filming in and her back arched when Killian pushed his hand underneath the bottom of her shirt, palm flat on her skin like he was trying to make sure there wasn’t a single inch of space between them.

He wasn’t sure if the oven was on. He wasn’t quite sure where that crumpled-up apron was. Tripping over the apron probably would have ruined the mood.  
  
It didn’t matter.

He was far to preoccupied to think about anything that wasn’t the feel of Emma’s entire body pressed up against his and her arms slung around his neck. And maybe he was particularly focused on whatever she was doing with her hips, rolling them slightly and they were in _the kitchen._ He didn’t care.

“This is better,” Emma muttered and Killian was fairly positive she was still talking about stress baking, but his feet were moving and he was leaning up against the island in the middle of the room and she made some kind of noise that was absolutely unfair when they were three blocks away from home.

Killian tried to agree – hum or nod or make some kind of noise that wasn’t just a ridiculously loud groan, but then Emma did that thing with her hips again and both his hands were under her shirt and this was spiraling out of control rather quickly.

The timer went off.

“Oh my God,” Emma sighed, pulling away and letting her head fall against his shoulder.

“How long have you been baking, love?”

“Only, like, half an hour. You were making sarcastic comments to Regina and trying to fire Scarlet and then Roland wanted to talk more about ice cream. You were easily distracted. And this really is some kind of absurdly simple recipe. Fifteen minutes in the oven, tops.”  
  
“And you don’t want to eat fully cooked cookies,” Killian added knowingly, pulling his right hand away from her waist to trail across her spine and thread through the ends of her hair. The hair tie had fallen out at some point.

“Yeah, well, if I made the cookies, then I get to choose how long they get cooked, right? That’s only fair.”  
  
“Absolutely fair, Swan.”

He couldn’t actually feel her smile through his jacket, but he liked to imagine it anyway. “You going to tell me why you don’t want to play in this game, then?” Emma asked.

“I agreed to playing in the game.”  
  
“Yeah after you were coerced to do so by two kids and the general determination of a producer who, honestly, is a little intense. Does she think she’s your agent?”  
  
“I think so,” Killian admitted. “Although, if you talk to Locksley he’s probably already started making lists of potential agents because, according to Ari, I’m going to have to do promo stuff for this game with the network.”

Emma pulled her head up, eyes wide and distractingly green – or that might have been the way she bit her lip when she looked at him. “What? Really?”  
  
“Is that surprising? I would almost believe that this was all part of Zelena’s plan to get me back on IC so they can time everything and up the ratings for the inevitable _Killian Jones returns to Kitchen Stadium_ episode.”  
  
“Good tagline.”  
  
“Swan.”  
  
“I’m just saying,” she shrugged. “I’d watch it.”  
  
“Generous of you.”  
  
She scrunched her nose, twisting her mouth slightly and her sneakers made noise when she moved again, pressing up and pushing her fingers in his hair to keep her balance. “You are very bad at trying to change the subject you know,” Emma smiled. “Come on, fess up. You’re worse than Henry when he’s trying to hang out with Violet and not actually say he’s hanging out with Violet.”  
  
“That is insulting, Swan,” Killian muttered. “This is a much better deflection than that. And that’s not even a deflection really. More like a very convoluted and obvious lie.”  
  
“It’s because he thinks you won’t feed him if you find out he’s lying.”  
  
“I’m fairly positive you know how to cook too.”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s part of his thought process at all,” Emma said and Killian wished the words in his brain would stop bouncing around, fairly certain he was going to hurt nerve endings or his cerebellum or something if they just kept doing that.

Killian couldn’t really shift on his feet – Emma still plastered against his front and a goddamn kitchen counter pushing into his spine, but he tried anyway and that was probably the worst idea he’d had all night because it was even more telling than actually saying anything.  
  
“For real,” Emma sighed, swiping her thumb over the ridge of his spine. “I made cookies.”  
  
He laughed before he could stop himself, nodding and kissing the top of her head and her thumb hadn’t actually stopped moving. “That’s true,” Killian admitted. “I, uh...I don’t want to disappoint him?”  
  
“Was that a question?”  
  
“It might have been.”  
  
“It didn’t have to be. It should have been the opposite of that. What’s the exact opposite of that?”  
  
“Probably just a normal sentence.”  
  
Emma scowled at him, but his heartbeat was, relatively, normal and there was still a sleeping fourteen-year-old in his dining room. Their dining room? Maybe.

God.

“You’re being frustrating on purpose,” Emma accused.

“I promise, Swan, I’m really not,” Killian said. “Well, no, that’s a lie. I was when I was talking to Gina, and maybe Ari, but I’m still the exact opposite while talking to you. You think that’s just another normal sentence, then?”  
  
“I hope you have to do eight-hundred hours of promo for this stupid game and your secret ingredient for your grand return is spinach.”  
  
“You can make a lot of things with spinach.”  
  
Emma let out a frustrated sound – a mix between a growl and a sigh and the exact noise she made when Henry didn’t take the garbage out every other day like he was supposed to and they really went through a ridiculous amount of food.

Maybe it was all the baking.

“Please stop talking about spinach,” Emma said and she was still on her toes, fingers tugging on the back of his hair. “Why would you think that?”  
  
“That I could make a lot of things with spinach? I know how to cook, Swan.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
Killian flashed her a smile that was _almost_ apologetic, but he also just enjoyed flirting with her and this was definitely flirting and absolutely a distraction. “I am...I cook things, Swan. And I’m good at that. And I’m...that’s enough. I will cook anything for any charity, but this is…”  
  
He sighed when he couldn’t come up with the right word, the plastic at the end of his left arm suddenly feeling far heavier than he could ever remember. He tried to move again – and probably bruised his back in the process – and Emma tilted her head like she was trying to read his mind.

She nearly gasped when she did.

“Oh no,” Emma shook her head. “No, that’s...you don’t even…”  
  
“Use your hands?”  
  
“Well, yeah, I guess. You really think Henry would care about that?”  
  
“No, no, not about that,” Killian said quickly. “Of course not. He’s not the worst kid in the world. I know he wouldn’t. Or doesn’t. But, come on, Swan, it’s an actual game and that paperwork Regina tried to push at me claimed it was going to be on TV and if the network wants to promo then there’s going to be all this extra stuff and…”  
  
He trailed off, still not sure what the words were when he wasn’t asking questions he’d been ignoring for the last week – or since she’d walked into a conference room two years before, but that seemed kind of absurdly sentimental and there were still cookies in his oven.

“He’s going to think you built the Empire State Building and the Brooklyn Bridge and possibly hung the moon no matter what you do,” Emma said. “You could try and kick the ball and totally whiff and break eighty-thousand bones and Henry will still think that. Because you are…”

They should consider finishing their sentences.

It wasn’t nearly as easy as it probably should have been.

Emma exhaled, closing her eyes and her shoulders moved when she took another deep breath, lips pulled tightly behind her teeth. “You’re absurdly good,” she said softly. “And you make all that stuff for his team and those kids love you and Henry thinks you’re...I mean there’s a distinct lack of teenage angst when it comes to you and Henry. None of that stupid, cliché, step-parent nonsense.”  
  
It was like all the oxygen flew out of the kitchen – both of them frozen and every inch of them still touching and Emma fell back onto her heels with a _thump_ that seemed to ricochet off the walls.

Killian could almost feel his mind short-circuiting,  _that_ word flashing like a neon sign in front of him. Emma’s mouth hung open, breathing on the wrong side of ragged as she looked anywhere that wasn’t actually him.

He had no idea how long they stood there, staring at each other and, maybe, hoping the other would say something so the silence would snap and the oxygen would come back and Killian couldn’t think of another word except _yes_ and that didn’t really make sense because no one had actually asked a question yet.

“Say something,” Emma muttered eventually and it might have been two weeks later and he was late for kickoff.

“Yes,” he said.

_Jeez._

Emma blinked. “Wait, what?”  
  
“That’s...that’s not even remotely what I meant. God, shit. I can’t believe you were stress baking on my behalf.”  
  
“Yeah, well, everyone was outside all night so I mean I couldn’t jump you when I walked into service.”  
  
“Are you suggesting that you wanted to jump me when you walked into service?”

“You’re twisting my words.”  
  
“Eh,” Killian grinned. “I’m fairly positive those are exactly the words you said, Swan.” She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t actually take a step back and her hand brushed over his left forearm “I wouldn’t have objected. You know, for the record.”  
  
“The customers would have been scandalized.”  
  
“I don’t care about the customers.”  
  
She laughed – easy and loud and that counteracted the silence and any lingering worry over questions and qualifiers and they should probably box up those cookies. They should at least take the cookies out of the oven.

“I’m going to play, you know,” Killian said and Emma nodded before he even finished the sentence.

“Henry will probably make his own jersey. And possibly a sign. It will probably be painfully adorable.”  
  
“Painfully.”

“I’ll bring orange slices. That’s what soccer moms do, right? I mean, I’m not driving a mini-van to Yankee Stadium, but I think I can manage orange slices.”  
  
“We could make something, Swan,” Killian suggested, moving his eyebrows and Emma’s teeth sank into her lip again. “You do look pretty good with flour streaked across your face. And your jeans. And not your jeans.”  
  
Her cheeks flushed, eyes wide and _green_ and he realized, rather suddenly, he hadn’t told her he loved her yet. He was fairly determined to remedy that immediately, but, as with most things in the last year, Emma knew.

“I love you, you know,” she said, twisting a finger through his belt loop and tugging on the front of his jacket with her free hand. “Just...a lot.”  
  
The muscles in his face were threatening to sprain from overuse, but if that was the worst injury he sustained pre or post charity soccer match, Killian wasn’t going to argue. “A lot, huh?” he asked, dropping his head to trail kisses along her jaw and he’d think about the way her breath hitched for, at least, two weeks.

And, all things considered, after the way the whole night had gone and the way his restaurant just seemed to exist, Killian probably should have been more prepared for the kitchen door to swing open at the least opportune time.

His hand was back under Emma’s shirt.

“Can we go?” Henry asked blearily, barely upright and arms already stuffed in Killian’s jacket. “It’s, like...wait are you guys making food?”  
  
Emma squeezed her eyes shut, shaking her head slightly in disbelief and Killian tried to move his hand and make sure the stupid counter didn’t actually snap his spine in half. “There is no way you can possibly be hungry again,” he muttered.

Henry shrugged. “I mean, kind of. It just smells good in here.”  
  
“There are cookies,” Emma said, nodding towards the oven and the baked goods they still hadn’t taken out. They were probably cooked all the way through now.

“For real?”  
  
“I would not lie about cookies.”  
  
“Can I have a cookie?”  
  
“I thought you wanted to leave.”  
  
Another shrug. “Yeah,” Henry admitted. “But that was before I realized you guys were making cookies. And whatever else you’re doing.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
“Alright,” Killian sighed, eyeing the smiling teenager in front of him with a look he hoped was vaguely disciplinary while still walking the fine line of not actually being a parent or even a step-parent and Henry was the only one who knew about the ring three blocks downtown. “Well, now that you’re awake, we can go home. That booth couldn’t have been very comfortable.”  
  
“Eh, it’s not bad. The mac and cheese was good.”  
  
“Do those two things go together?”  
  
Henry made a face, rolling his shoulders in a decidedly _Emma-way_ and the jacket wasn’t nearly as big as it probably should have been. “Seriously though, can I have a cookie?”  
  
“There are containers in that cabinet up there,” Killian said, nodding towards the other side of the kitchen and Henry was walking as soon as he opened his mouth.

“That’s the fastest he’s moved all summer,” Emma muttered. She let her head fall against his shoulder, arms wrapped tightly around his waist and Henry didn’t ask for further instructions, just yanked open the oven and piled the cookies in the container after taking, no less, than five for himself and his three-block walk downtown.

“These are really good,” he mumbled, walking back towards the dining room and Emma’s laugh ticked against the side of Killian’s neck.

He kissed her head again.

“I’d help him make the sign,” Emma said suddenly. “You know, if that helps sweeten the deal or whatever. I’ll draw...what’s something I could draw on it?”  
  
“Soccer balls?” Killian asked.

“That’s super lame.”  
  
“That’s all soccer’s got.”  
  
“Ah, well, we’ll just make your name look good on the sign then. Oh, God, you think they’ll let us bring a sign into Yankee Stadium?”  
  
“I’m sure you could charm your way in with a sign, love.”

“That is cheating,” she accused. “You can’t start complimenting me when I’m trying to jumpstart that ego.”  
  
Killian laughed, eyes flitting towards the door when Henry yelled something decidedly impatient. “I love you,” he said and nothing interrupted them that time.

“If your eventual IC return secret ingredient is actually spinach, I’m going to talk about my future-telling abilities for the rest of our lives.”  
  
He hummed, ignoring everything every single one of his organs did at that particular idea. Good. That was good. That was exactly what he was working towards. Or waiting for. Or whatever.

“That seems fair, Swan,” Killian said, pushing open the kitchen door and smiling when they found Henry had already eaten every cookie he’d stolen. “Let’s get out of here.”


	2. Chapter 2

“This is, easily, the coolest thing we’ve ever done.”  
  
“You’re not actually doing anything,” Emma pointed out, glancing at David who, appeared, to be ignoring her completely.

Mary Margaret shook her head, hitching her arm under Leo’s legs and babbling something that might have been words before turning back towards Emma. “Don’t pop this bubble for him,” she said. “He thinks he’s going to get out on the field. He’s going to collect dirt or something.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, Mom, we’re going to get dirt,” Henry yelled, bobbing on his toes. He didn’t trip, but he did stumble over the words a bit, voice picking up and excitement obvious in every letter and Emma had been right – he made a jersey.

Or he’d done some jersey-type surgery on one of the several dozen jerseys he owned – getting rid of the name patch on the back and writing out Jones and that,  _certainly,_ didn’t do several different things to Emma’s entire body and her ability to not cry in public places.

David probably would have laughed at her.

Well, no, he was too busy plotting how to sneak onto the field at Yankee Stadium and, apparently, steal dirt.

Will would have laughed at her.

Will helped Henry and Roland make a sign at the bar the night before.

“I don’t understand this dirt thing at all,” Belle muttered, doing her best to avoid Roland’s feet when she fell in step next to Will. He was hanging over Will’s shoulder, face flushed from the blood that had rushed to the top of his head and Regina didn’t even look surprised by any of this.

Emma wasn’t really either – a year after Killian had moved downtown and they’d all kind of mixed and mingled and it was some kind of  _family_ in a big, emotional way that was underlined and bolded and, maybe, had fireworks going off behind it.

At least that’s how Emma kept thinking about it. And nearly proclaiming in the middle of the kitchen at the Jolly with flour smeared across her jeans.

God, what an idiot. That wasn’t...not yet, at least. Not technically.

So Killian helped Henry with his homework and made dinner when he wasn’t running service at the Jolly and they liked to spend Sundays on the couch with video game controllers in hand and he’d almost gotten good at killing zombies.

They were comfortable and domestic and Emma was so goddamn lucky it, sometimes, made her head spin if she thought about it for too long.

She usually didn’t have time to think about it for too long – far too busy with a filming schedule that always seemed to require another appearance in-studio and another cookbook and she really needed to start thinking about more recipes, but she’d been focused on a few other things for the last two weeks.

Ariel would call it  _distracted, you’re distracted_ and had, several times, but Emma didn’t have time for that either and she’d nearly forgotten the orange slices before.

“Uncle David wants to steal dirt from Yankee Stadium,” Henry explained, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Because Derek Jeter touched it.”  
  
“That doesn’t even make any sense,” Emma muttered. Henry actually turned to gape at her, eyes wide with disbelief and sports-based offense and she couldn’t actually wave her hands, laden down with orange slices and stress-fueled bake goods because she hadn’t thought of a single recipe yet.

“Yes it does,” David argued. “This is the house that Jeter built, after all.”  
  
“Oh my God.”  
  
Mary Margaret mumbled something else against Leo’s head that sounded suspiciously like  _your father is insane_ and David rolled his eyes. “I thought this was the house that Ruth built,” Robin said reasonably and they had to be close to their seats.

Ruby and Regina had joined forces a few days before – each personally offended that the massive and extended family of Killian Jones wasn’t immediately offered half a dozen rows of seats for a  _charity soccer game_ and the combined weight of their fury probably caused several Yankee Stadium ticket agents to cry.

“No, didn’t you hear?” Will asked, making a face when Roland moved on his shoulder. “This is the house that Jones built. We’ve been guaranteed, at least, forty-seven goals.”  
  
“See, you’re acting like this doesn’t matter to you,” Emma said. “But you were the one trying to ask Killian about strategy three nights ago.”  
  
“How do you know that?”  
  
“I have ears? And eyes?”  
  
Will made a face, pressing his head against Roland’s shoulder when the kid started laughing and Regina tried to tug his own makeshift Jones jersey down when it rode up his back. “How’d the last run through go yesterday afternoon? Cap didn’t want to talk about it when he got in for service.”  
  
“And you don’t think that was some kind of sign?”

Will opened his mouth to say something else, but Robin mumbled  _shut up, Scarlet_ and that was the end of that conversation.

Emma did her best to smile – certain it was going to be fine and good and it was a charity game for God’s sake. No one expected them actually play well.

But Killian was Killian and, by extension, Emma was Emma and Henry had brought, like, a dozen friends because there was so much goddamn room in their several designated aisles and it felt like some kind of terrifying ocean of teenage-expectations.

“He just wants to impress you and Henry,” Robin muttered, knocking his shoulder familiarly against Emma’s once they made their way into the seats and they were only a few feet behind the benches. “Mostly Henry, I think.”

There was a waiter. They had their own in-aisle waiter. Ruby had definitely made someone cry.

“Yeah, I know,”  Emma said. “He could do that by waking up in the morning, though.”  
  
“That was actually pretty romantic.”  
  
“It felt weird when I was saying it.”  
  
Robin laughed softly, tapping his fingers on the armrest next to him and the Stadium looked completely different. Not that Emma had ever actually been to a baseball game, but she imagined there wasn’t usually a whole other field on top of the field when the Yankees played.

“Does it look especially soccer?” she asked and she saw Robin smile out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m not sure if I know what that question means, but the proper term is football pitch and, yes, it does look like a proper match.”  
  
“That was almost oppressively British.”

“Old habits. You know, Ruby and Gina forced him to film a promo thing yesterday. It was part for the network and part the team and it’s up on both sites. That might have been why he was attacking the vegetables during service last night.”

“Oh,” Emma mumbled, a wholly underwhelming response and maybe her eyes and ears weren’t working nearly as well as she thought they had been.

“Ruby didn’t show you?”  
  
Emma shook her head, something churning in the pit of her stomach that felt like a mix of nerves and anxiety and the hope that Killian didn’t actually break any bones because they’d already done the whole soccer injury thing with Henry six months ago and she wasn’t sure if she could go through that again.

“Should she have?” Emma asked and Robin made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

Henry and Roland were already cheering – at the grounds crew – and that sign wasn’t going to make it to kickoff, already slightly wrinkled by wind and they probably should have made two so there was no issue over sharing.

“Depends on your response, I guess,” Robin replied, leaning to his side to tug his phone out of his pocket. “For the record, A sent the link to me last night with just, like, twenty-seven exclamation points and the promise that it would mean something to you.”  
  
Emma narrowed her eyes. “And she didn’t think it would make sense to just, you know, send it to me?”  
  
“You know, A. She lives for this back-room drama and I’m fairly positive she was terrified of what Killian would do if he found out she was the reason you got your hands on that video.”  
  
“And you’re cool with that kind of lingering threat?”  
  
“Eh,” Robin shrugged. “My kid is obsessed with him. He was the best man at my wedding. I’m fairly confident he won’t actually try to push me in front of the downtown-6 later.”  
  
“We drove up here. Your wife has questionably strong connections with town-car companies.”

Robin beamed. “Exactly. Here,” he added, pushing the phone into Emma’s palm and the video had already started playing.

Emma tugged her hair over her shoulder, trying to shake away that one strand that seemed determined to stay in her eyes and he must have just finished practicing because his hair wasn’t quite set and there was a sheen to his face that might have actually been the most attractive thing she’d ever seen in her entire life.

 _God_.

She could feel Robin’s stare on the side of her head – watching and  _waiting_ for some kind of visible reaction and the whole lot of them had probably seen this stupid video. Mary Margaret kept shifting in her seat.

She’d totally seen that stupid video.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s going to be a lot of fun,” Killian said, answering a question from an off-camera reporter. “Who do I think is going to be the best on the field? Well, if you want to get technical, the correct term is pitch.”  
  
He flashed a smile at the camera, eyebrows doing something that should be illegal in every country in the entire world. “But, uh, honestly,” he continued, tugging on that piece of hair that curled just behind his ear. “Me? Is that the wrong answer?”  
  
The invisible reporter laughed – or that might have just been Emma and she barely even noticed when the waiter started passing out drinks and food and there was alcohol in her other hand before she realized someone had actually ordered anything.

It was probably Ruby.

She had a tendency to just...take over.

“Em,” she shouted, pushing up slightly in her chair. “Em! What if you did a section on better stadium food? Like, you know, hot dogs and hamburgers and, oh man, steal Killian’s hamburger recipe. We’ll sell a million copies.”  
  
“I don’t think she’s listening to you,” David muttered, taking an exaggerated bite of what actually appeared to be a corndog.

Emma glanced up, grimacing at the food in her brother’s hand. “Are you guys talking?” she asked. “And what the hell is that?”  
  
“Delicious.”  
  
“I don’t think that’s a type of food, technically,” Mary Margaret pointed out. She twisted in her chair, careful to keep Leo Henry as still as possible and fished through the bag at her feet, tugging out a plastic container of what Emma immediately knew was squash.

And Cheerios.

“M’s, are you mixing vegetables and cereal?” Emma asked, gaze flitting between Robin’s phone and her sister-in-law and having an actual, coherent conversation was proving rather difficult when Killian kept smiling at the camera.

“He’s got very specific tastes,” she explained. “He likes gourd-type vegetables and...one specific type of vaguely disgusting cereal.”  
  
“It really is horrible if they’re not doused in sugar aren't they?”  
  
Mary Margaret shrugged. “At least it’s not all squash all the time. It was Killian’s idea, actually.”  
  
“Wait, what?”  
  
“Yeah, when was that David? A week ago?” David mumbled, a mouth full of corndog and a drink in his hand and Emma tried not to actually do damage to her eyes when she rolled them. “Anyway,” Mary Margaret said. “Whenever we were at the Jolly last. He said something about grains and it might actually go pretty well with the squash and, you know, I tried it the other day and it’s not really that bad.”  
  
Emma blinked, the noise from the video dulling in her ears and it kind of felt like she’d sunk through the very padded, very fancy chairs they’d been allotted. “You ate your own kid’s food?”

“Is that weird? What if it tasted awful?”  
  
“He’s a baby. I don’t think he’ll remember.”  
  
Mary Margaret didn’t say anything and Leo Henry made a decidedly one-year-old noise, grabbing a handful of Cheerios and stuffing them in his face with the same grace and tact his father had in the next seat over.

Emma shook her head, but that was mostly so she knew it was still connected to her body and she hadn’t just floated into the atmosphere, buoyed by  _feelings_ and  _emotions_ and she really couldn’t cope with the convergence of all of this at once.

 _Yeah, well, like I said, it’s a good cause and I’ve got a kid...I mean, I’ve got...it’s a good cause_.

Robin chuckled when Emma’s eyes widened, threatening to fall out of her face and possibly onto the field and that would probably scar Henry for life or something.

“Wait,” she stammered, not sure who she was talking to, but Ruby was still half-standing in her chair and she had  _that_ look on her face. “Did he…”  
  
“Yup,” Will shouted a few seats away, popping his mouth on the word and Emma could barely hear it over the sound of her pulse beating in her ears.

“See,” Robin mumbled. “This is why he didn’t want really want you to see the video. Scroll back for two seconds and you can actually see the tips of his ears go red.”  
  
Emma let out a shaky laugh, body falling forward with the force of her exhale or sigh or, maybe, just a  _complete swoon_ , but she did as instructed and Robin wasn’t lying. The words were out of Killian’s mouth and she could tell the exact moment he realized what he’d said.

He looked like he froze for half a second, blinking just a bit quicker and his tongue pressed against the corner of his mouth. The off-camera reporter asked another question and Killian nearly jumped to attention, spine straightening and shoulders shifting and Emma wondered if it’d be really weird if she just leapt onto the field – the pitch,  _whatever_ – and started making out with her boyfriend.

“Yeah, yeah,” Killian continued on the video. “You know, it’s easy to kind of get sidetracked with stuff we think is important, but this kind of throws everything all back into pretty stark focus. These kids are going through stuff we could never really understand and if I can run around for a couple hours, at Yankee Stadium no less, than, yeah sign me up. Plus, I’ve been promised orange slices later.”  
  
Emma was fairly certain she was still cognizant and conscious, but Robin and Ruby seemed to be having some kind of silent conversation over her head and Mary Margaret was mumbling something against Leo Henry’s head that sounded suspiciously like  _Aunt Emma is making weird faces, that’s right_.

Henry and Roland were still yelling.

It made more sense now – the players were coming out for warmups.

Oh, well, shit.

He hadn’t actually put his uniform on at home –  _There are rules, Swan, you have to get dressed in the locker room or it’s bad luck_ – and, in some theoretic vision, Emma knew he’d have to  _wear_ a uniform and even what the uniform  _looked like_ , but even her most detailed expectations failed to match up with what had actually just arrived along the first base line of Yankee Stadium.

“You alright there, Em?” Ruby asked and even Mary Margaret laughed.

Emma shook her head – not sure if she was answering or just trying to ignore her very loud, vaguely hysterical friends – but she barely had time to even consider a sarcastic response before Killian was jogging their direction and  _damn_ , that was cheating.

“Hey,” he said, coming up just short of the wall and his smile probably could have powered the entire borough when he saw Roland and Henry in front of him.

Roland tried to climb over the concrete and the rolled up tarp towards Killian, but Henry grabbed him around the waist immediately – and then nearly let him fall when he noticed the number on Killian’s back.

“You ok, kid?” Emma asked, but Henry didn’t answer her. He stared at Killian, matching flushes on each of their faces, and Emma was never going to hear anything except her over-excited heartbeat.

“Good number,” Henry muttered and Killian managed to smile even wider.

“Yeah, I figured it’d be good luck or something. I mean Rol expects me to score, what was it, mate? Forty-seven goals?”  
  
“Forty-eight,” Roland shouted.

Killian hummed in agreement, eyes flashing towards Emma. She was breathing through her mouth. And she didn’t remember when she stood up. “Hi, Swan,” he grinned, all easy confidence and certainty and blue eyes that seemed to actually match the blue in his goddamn uniform.

This was some kind of joke.

It had to be.

She was absolutely dreaming all of this.

“Hi,” Emma said, but it came out a bit breathless and Ruby was going to injure her spleen with the force of her cackle. “Oh my God, Ruby, shut up.”  
  
“No, no, I get it,” Ruby laughed.

Emma couldn’t actually press her hands to her cheeks – certain they’d probably be  _scalding_ with the force of her embarrassment – holding, as she was, four Tupperware containers of baked goods and goddamn orange slices.

Killian waved his hand towards Ruby and she didn’t actually stop laughing, but she sat back down and started making faces at Leo Henry. “You look a little distracted, love,” Killian muttered, moving in front of her and resting his arms on the wall.

“Shouldn’t you be warming up?” Emma asked. “Stretching or...kicking something?”  
  
“Are you interested in watching me stretch?”  
  
“Oh my God, you’re worse than Ruby is.”  
  
“I’m going to try not to take offense to that, Swan. And, strictly speaking, yeah, I probably should be, but I don’t think I can actually get penalized for anything.”  
  
“Yellow card.”  
  
“That was good.”  
  
“I do occasionally listen.”  
  
Killian eyes  _brightened_ or just got bluer or maybe Emma had really lost her mind. She should eat some orange slices. Up her metabolism. Or something. That didn’t even make any sense.

“True,” Killian said, resting his chin on his palm. “And sometimes you are noticeably distracted, Swan.”  
  
“And sometimes you stumble over interviews in promo videos.”  
  
She was an idiot.

Robin might have actually sighed next to her and Will mumbled something under his breath that sounded like  _jeez, Emma, now he’s going to be thinking that all game_ and Killian might have actually scraped his elbow trying to move his hands off the concrete.

“Huh,” he muttered, running his hand through his hair and rocking back on his heels. “Locksley or Scarlet?”  
  
“I’m pleading the fifth. That’s how that works, right, David?”

“Absolutely,” David promised, clearly not listening to a single word Emma had asked, far too busy detailing the dirt plan with Henry again.

Emma sighed. “They want to steal dirt,” she explained and one side of Killian’s mouth twitched. “Something about Derek Jeter and not Derek Jeter and who’s that guy Henry’s obsessed with?”  
  
“Aaron Judge,” Henry and Killian answered immediately.

“Right, right,” Emma muttered, taking a deep breath and piling her small Tupperware collection in front of her. She leaned forward, tugging on the front of Killian’s jersey – he was wearing a jersey,  _God_ – and she was fairly positive his whole body seemed to sag forward, fingers wrapped around her wrist.

This was the last place they should be having this conversation.

Or the last place they should be having this conversation if Emma could actually formulate a coherent sentence, but that jersey was distracting and  _he_ was distracting and she couldn’t help but wonder why nothing had happened in the last two weeks.

She was kind of frustrated it hadn't happened in the last two weeks.

Although, she should probably buy Ariel some kind of gift. For not telling or talking and everyone knew everything about everyone in that restaurant and it was some kind of miracle that someone hadn’t just told Emma what the plan was.

She’d just...stumbled into it? Well, no, that wasn’t really true either. She’d gotten back from filming two weeks ago and Henry had clearly already been home – backpack dropped just inside the door and one shoe left in the middle of the hallway and she’d just meant to move the goddamn fucking sneaker.

She hadn’t really meant to ruin everything.

Or potentially ruin everything if they ever acknowledged what  _everything_ was.

Her head hurt.

And Emma hadn’t even opened the box.

She’d been too busy trying not to pass out in her kid’s room when she was fairly certain said kid was three blocks uptown at her boyfriend’s restaurant.

But now boyfriend seemed a bit juvenile and they’d been living together for a year and Killian had said  _I’ve got a kid_ on an actual, official interview.

That went on the network site. And probably got e-mail blasted to the kinds of people who got e-mail blasts from the network.

God, why hadn’t he actually asked yet?

“Swan,” Killian said, squeezing his fingers and she nearly dislocated her entire vertebrae snapping her head back up. “You went all glossy there, love. Are you ok? Do you need an orange slice?”  
  
“Maybe,” Emma admitted. She didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath until it suddenly felt like her lungs were going to explode. “You’re totally right, this is totally distracting.”  
  
Killian twisted his eyebrows – any sense of pre-game,  _pre-match_ , nerves almost visibly falling away as soon as Emma mumbled out the words and the compliment and Henry was staring at them like he was expecting something to happen.

She was an idiot.

The box was sitting behind his soccer cleats. It might still be there.

Henry totally knew.

“They weren’t actually supposed to show you,” Killian mumbled, leaning forward again and for half a second Emma thought he was going to kiss her. But there were cameras everywhere and a small army of soccer-playing teenagers and he really should go stretch.

Will would never let him hear the end of it if he strained something.

“Yeah, I believe that was mentioned,” Emma said. She grimaced slightly when her elbow bumped against the wall, but she moved her fingers anyway, tracing over the back of Killian’s neck and down his arm and he actually looked like he shivered. “It was a good video, though. Even with the stammering.”  
  
“That so?”  
  
“Why would I lie about that?”  
  
“I honestly have no idea. I hadn’t really gotten that far in the stages of worrying.”

“What exactly are the stages of worrying?”  
  
Killian clicked his tongue, teeth tugging on his lower lip when Emma’s nails scratched through the bottom of his hair. A camera shutter went off somewhere. “Realization,” he started. “A quick and sudden determination to fix it as quickly as possible. Avoiding the issue completely. Threatening your friends with metaphorical pink slips if they even so much as breathed a word of said worry to you and, uh, stress baking.”  
  
“That’s it?” Emma asked. “And you were all the way to just before stress baking?”  
  
“I had practice. And a dinner service. I didn’t really have time to get to stress baking.”  
  
“Naturally.”  
  
Killian laughed under his breath, leaning his head back against Emma’s fingers and someone called for him from the field.  _Pitch_. “I think they actually expect me to play soccer,” he muttered, ignoring Roland’s not-so-quiet screech when he used the wrong word. “Football, football, football,”  Killian corrected quickly. “Deep breaths, mate.”

“You’ve got to go score, Uncle Killian,” Roland yelled and it sounded like more of a demand than whoever was actually coaching that team.

“He should probably be in charge,” Emma muttered, working another smile out of Killian and  _that_ felt like scoring eighty-seven goals and forty-six penalty kicks and scoring in soccer was, apparently, very limited.

_Football._

God.  

“Between him and Henry I have been taught every way Wayne Rooney and David Villa has ever scored, so it’s almost like I’ve been double-coached,” he said. “I’m fairly positive my MVP trophy has already been personalized.”

“Awfully confident all of a sudden.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you brought orange slices.”  
  
“And baked,” Emma added. “Don’t forget the baking.”  
  
“Does it count if I cleaned up the frosting disaster at the end?”  
  
Emma shook her head deftly and both Ruby and Mary Margaret were going to choke or pass out and David should probably hold Leo Henry if that happened.

“No,” she said, something in the pit of her stomach fluttering like she was fifteen and flirting with the captain of the football team. Actual football. Not whatever it was they were doing. “And it wasn’t really a disaster,” Emma continued. “More like a debacle. At worst. It just, you know, kind of flew everywhere when the bowl fell. The cleanup doesn’t award you any points or goals or whatever.”  
  
“Rough crowd.”  
  
“Compliment the baked goods later and then we’ll talk.”  
  
Someone yelled  _Jones_ from the other side of the field and Emma was fairly positive she’d heard that voice on her TV screen and there were more photographers there than she expected. They should probably stop flirting on the sidelines.

She couldn't seem to stop flirting on the sidelines.

“It seems I have a game to play,” Killian muttered, rolling his eyes as soon as the exasperated sound came a few seats away. “Match. I know. I know it’s a match.”

“Go play, Lieutenant,” Emma said, but her hand had found its way to the front of his jersey again and he couldn’t actually walk away when she was holding onto him like there was a magnet there.

His eyes flashed at the rank and Emma tried to smile like she  _was_ a teenager and there there weren’t actual teenagers a few feet away or a photographer trying to get them all to pose.

“For  _The Daily News_ ,” he explained and Emma’s head snapped towards Ruby out of instinct.

“Put it in the cookbook with your stadium series section,” she shrugged.

Killian furrowed his eyebrows. “Wait, what?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Emma said quickly, but Killian didn’t look impressed. “Also, Ruby, you’re an awful producer.”  
  
Ruby sounded like she growled and the photographer looked a bit intimidated, shifting back and forth on his feet until Regina seized control of the situation and told anyone who wasn’t part of  _the group_ that they had to get out of frame since they didn't’ have parental permission to put their picture in New York City tabloids.

“Thanks,” the photographer said a few moments later, still glancing warily at Ruby who looked like she was considering all the ways to get copies of his photo without actually paying him.

Killian turned back towards Emma – and she was going to say something, really, she was. It was going to be motivational or inspirational or something straight out of an 80s movie, but she didn’t get a chance.

He kissed her.

In front of the cameras and the teenagers and what felt like the entire goddamn world.

Emma leaned forward, arms moving around his neck and the wall pushed painfully into her stomach, but she barely even noticed when Killian did that thing where he seemed to try and breathe her in.

Or maybe just pushed his hand into her hair.

“Distracting,” Emma mumbled, resting her forehead against his and she couldn’t actually see his mouth, but she knew he was smiling.

“For luck,” Killian said.

He didn’t need it.

And Emma wasn’t really surprised – he’d never really needed it, no matter what he thought, and he looked so goddamn  _good_ in that stupid uniform, she’d probably steal it. Or something. She had no idea if he had to give it back.

He scored.

Twenty-two minutes left on the clock – or, as both Henry and Roland and a small fleet of teenagers were quick to point out  _the 68th minute_ – the ball landing on his feet and in the back of the net in a blink. Emma wasn’t sure what kind of noise she actually made, a scream or shout or whatever kind of noise a person would make when they found a ring box behind her kid’s soccer cleats two weeks ago and then watched a video with her boyfriend mumbling over future-type qualifiers.

And then, she was fairly certain, she nearly passed out.

She almost didn’t hear it. She was too busy screaming and jumping and she should have been better prepared for Killian in a soccer uniform.

But she wasn’t and Emma certainly wasn’t prepared for the kid on Henry’s other side – a defender on the travel team he’d played for that summer named Ben or Bill or something.

“Henry, Henry! Did your dad just score?”  
  
“Yeah, he did,” Henry shouted back, jumping in tandem with Roland and the sign was a bent-up mess by the 68th minute of play. “Did you see that shot? He totally wrecked that defender!”

Emma stumbled slightly, an impressive feat considering she hadn’t actually taken a step, and she nearly took out the orange slices before Robin dropped a knowing hand on her shoulder to steady her.

“Deep breaths,” he muttered. “Just focus on that piece of gum stuck to the wall.”  
  
“That’s disgusting,” Emma grumbled.

Robin laughed softly, but he didn’t move his hand and Emma knew Will was staring at her too. “You should probably tell him,” Robin added. “You know at some point. Not now, obviously.”  
  
“I think he’s a little busy now.”  
  
“That’s what I’m saying, but, you know, eventually. And then live happily ever after or something.”  
  
Emma nodded slowly, lips moving in response, but she wasn’t sure she actually said anything.

They won the game.

_It’s a match, Mom, we’ve been over this._

They won the game.

Ruby stared at a security guard until he opened up a gate to the field and Regina glared at every groundskeeper who even dared to look their direction, marching them towards the media scrum just outside the box.

 _That was good, Mom! You’re totally a respectable fan now_.

Emma let that slide, trying to shift the Tupperware containers on her hip and Killian was already surrounded by reporters and more photographers, answering questions with his hand stuffed in his hair and his left arm twisted behind his back.

“You good?” Mary Margaret asked, appearing at Emma’s side and holding her hands out expectantly. Emma blinked in confusion, lips parting slightly and Mary Margaret didn’t miss a beat, just grabbed two of the containers without a word. “That’s not an answer,” she pointed out.

“I’m not sure I understand the question,” Emma admitted.

“That kid. And the yelling. And the video.”  
  
Emma considered her answer for a moment, but it was almost blatantly obvious and maybe she should just ask him.

No, that’s not how this worked.

She was fairly positive that’s not how it worked. She’d never...done any of this before.

“Yeah,” Emma said, snapping the word out when she realized she hadn’t actually answered Mary Margaret. “I am. Is that weird?”  
  
“Emma, you just asked me if it was weird that you were happy.”  
  
“That’s probably weird, right?”  
  
“Absolutely.”

“I really should have been better prepared for how good he looks in that uniform too,” Emma said and Mary Margaret’s laugh probably alerted several birds and fairies of an impending  _happily ever after_.

Mary Margaret nodded in agreement. “It’s not a bad look.”  
  
Emma smiled, shaking her hair over her shoulders and the rest of the team had, finally, noticed the baked goods and orange slices, descending on her and Mary Margaret quickly, a mess of hands and elbows, all determined to get sustenance after the match.

Emma did her best to hold onto the containers in her hands, could hear Killian trying to work his way out of the interview, but there were more questions and the entire stadium seemed to freeze when someone asked him about how your wife made food for the team.  
  
“That’s just bad prep,” Mary Margaret mumbled and the metaphorical birds paused mid-flight.

David looked like he was trying to figure out a way to actually arrest the journalist, but Emma shook her head again, twisting back towards a suddenly paler-than-normal Killian.

She shrugged.

And that wasn’t really the most romantic response, but no one had really asked the question.

There weren’t any questions in the Jolly later that night either – the not-so-secret celebratory dinner Ariel had planned with food that would have been better if Killian was cooking it, a fact he was quick to point out as soon as the new sous chef was back in the kitchen.

They ate it anyway and Killian helped Will mix drinks, grinning at Emma every time his eyes met hers. It was almost enough to distract all over again.

The alcohol helped.

They took more pictures – Killian’s participation trophy featuring prominently in all of them and Ruby tried to bring up the cookbook no less than eight different times.

Emma drank some more and Killian snuck into his own kitchen to make her onion rings, wrapping one arm around her waist to drop the plate in front of her at the bar and leave kisses on her neck.

Roland fell asleep draped over Killian eventually, body twisted in some sort of improbable way and he whined when Robin tried to pry his hands away from the shirt he had gripped in his fists. Mary Margaret took a picture of that as well.  
  
There weren’t any questions on the three-block walk downtown, Henry weaving just a bit until Emma wrapped her arm around his shoulder and he didn’t even argue when she pulled him against her side.

He was half asleep by the time they got into the apartment, toeing out of his sneakers and leaving them directly in front of the door. Killian tossed his keys on the table, rolling his shoulders slightly and Emma didn’t even try to get her jacket on the actual hook.

It was domestic. It was nice. She was happy. The metaphorical birds were chirping at nearly eleven o’clock at night.

“Hey, teeth,” Emma said, miming a toothbrush with her finger when Henry started to clomp down the hallway.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he mumbled. “Night, Mom. Night, Dad. That was a crazy good goal before.”  
  
Emma’s...  _something_ cracked when she snapped back towards Killian, his eyes dangerously wide and jaw nearly on the floor and she wasn’t sure he was breathing. The bathroom door slammed shut and Killian jumped, blinking quickly like he was trying to get everything into focus.

Emma moved slowly, reaching a hand out cautiously.

He didn’t flinch when her hand landed on his arm.

“Did he…” Killian started, shaking his head in response to a question he hadn’t actually finished. “He’s tired. Something about the sun and draining energy and he’s just talking in tongues.”  
  
Her heart expanded and then exploded and the birds were singing some kind of love song medley in the middle of the apartment. “I’m fairly positive he was still speaking English,” Emma said and Killian let out a shaky laugh. “And that’s not the first time that’s happened today, so I don’t think you get to blame the sun.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Some kid. I have no idea what his name is. Red hair, freckles all over his cheeks. Plays defense?”

“Brandon.”  
  
“Wait, really?”  
  
Killian nodded. “I am one-hundred percent positive that kid’s name is Brandon. He’s got a peanut allergy. Don’t ask me what his last name is though, I have no idea.”

“I mean, I thought his name was Ben, so you’re definitely winning on that front.”

“Was his name an important part of the story?” Killian asked, some of the surprise leaving his voice and he didn’t look quite as tense, one hand falling to Emma’s waist.

“Nah, that was just part of the set-up,” Emma muttered. “You scored and he told Henry his dad scored and there was no argument, just another string of adjectives to describe your goal. So, again, not the first time that’s happened today. Or the first time people have made sweeping assumptions about your family qualifiers.”  
  
“I thought your brother was going to kill that journalist.”  
  
Emma winced and this conversation was not going the way she expected it. That was kind of a trend...for her life.

Huh.

“Would it really be so bad?” she asked, practically shouting the question in the otherwise empty living room. She could hear the sink still running in the bathroom.

Killian furrowed his eyebrows, his hand stilling on her side and her shirt had rumpled slightly under his fingers. “Your brother killing a journalist at Yankee Stadium?” he asked. “It’d probably make it difficult for him to get dirt.”  
  
“I think Scarlet stole some for him.”  
  
“That doesn’t surprise me at all.”  
  
“That’s not really what I was talking about.”  
  
“You don’t say.”

Emma rolled her eyes and maybe she was the one who’d been drained by the sun because she actually stuck her tongue out, pushing slightly on Killian’s chest to try and get him towards the couch. He took the hint quickly, backing up and dropping into the corner, tugging her down with him until she was flush against his side with her legs perpendicular over his.

“What’s this really about, Swan?” he asked, brushing his fingers through the ends of her hair. “And when were you going to tell me about the cookbook?”  
  
“Probably when you weren’t freaking out about a charity soccer game.” Killian opened his mouth, but she snapped her jaw in frustration and the smirk that settled on his face was absolutely cheating. “I know it’s a match. I understand the terminology.”  
  
“You’re bouncing all around this conversation, love.”  
  
“That’s because you’re not telling me about interview revelations.”  
  
Killian sighed, resting his head on her shoulder and his arm tightened around her waist. “I didn’t...we’ve only kind of talked about it,” he mumbled. “Even if I’ve been thinking it for awhile.”

“How long is awhile? Exactly?”  
  
“Weeks. Months. Since the very beginning.”  
  
She needed to stop holding her breath without realizing it. She was probably doing permanent damage to her lungs. Or her brain. Her brain needed oxygen, right?

That made sense.

“I didn’t even help with Henry’s jersey,” Emma said. “He did that himself and asked Ruby to make sure there were tickets for his friends and he drew all the letters on the sign so Rol could color them in. This is...he’s thinking it too. Obviously.”  
  
“Obviously,” Killian echoed, a note of disbelief in his voice that didn’t belong there.

Emma took a deep breath, trying to draw on some kind of conversational and emotional courage she’d only recently discovered she had. “Would it help,” she started, choosing her words carefully, “if I mentioned that I’d also been thinking about it? In the affirmative?”  
  
Killian pulled his head up slowly, staring at her like he couldn't quite believe she was there or talking and Emma tried not to bite her lip too tightly. “The affirmative?”  
  
“You need to stop just repeating what I’m saying.”  
  
“That’s because I’m very confused.”

“I’m just saying...that if there were questions or, you know, whatever. My answer would be...yes.”  
  
“Yes,” Killian said, dragging the word out until it sounded long enough to be a keynote speech at the United Nations. “And I’m asking what, exactly?”

“Are we having the same conversation right now? I’m not sure that we are.” Killian shrugged, one of his shoulders brushing up against Emma’s in the process and he really did look confused. And just a bit nervous. “You would make a terrible pirate, you know,” Emma continued. “Hiding treasure in blatantly obvious places.”

Killian blanched, lips pressed together tightly and Emma was momentarily distracted by how  _ridiculously blue_ his eyes were before he was kissing her or she was kissing him and it didn’t really matter because they appeared to, finally, be on the same conversational page.

Emma didn’t remember swinging her leg over his hip, just that he groaned when she moved against him and they should probably stop doing this with a fourteen-year-old kid who regarded them both as parental authorities down the hallway.  
  
“Ah, gross,” Henry sighed, leaning against the wall with his arms cross and his feet crossed at the ankle and he’d learned both of those things from Killian. “You figure it out yet, Mom?”  
  
Emma nodded, her back not appreciating the twist she’d put it in when she tried to glance over her shoulder. “It’s your fault, you know. If you hadn’t left your sneakers everywhere, I never would have found it.”  
  
Henry scrunched his nose – and he’d gotten  _that_  from her. “Oh. Sorry.”  
  
Killian sighed, but he didn’t actually seem frustrated, he looked like he was bordering close to ecstatic and Emma understood the feeling. “You could still help, you know,” he said, nodding back towards the hallway and he didn’t have to say another word before Henry was sprinting towards his room and the box that was, apparently, still sitting behind his soccer cleats.

“He helped me pick it out,” Killian muttered and Emma’s stomach leapt into her throat and her heart did something absolutely impossible and she’d probably never stop smiling.

“He’d make a better pirate than you,” she said.

“I hope so.”

“Here, here, here, here,” Henry cried, sliding into the couch when his socks didn’t provide the necessary traction to stop immediately. “What happens now? Shouldn’t there be candles or something? There are always candles in the movies.”

“I don’t think we even own candles,” Emma said and Henry deflated immediately.

“For real?”  
  
“We’ve got to have candles somewhere, right?” Killian asked. Emma shook her head. “You should have candles, love. If we’re going to do this, we should do it the right way.”  
  
Emma was still smiling. And still sitting on top of Killian. “I really don’t need candles.”

“This wasn’t exactly the plan. At least let me get up, Swan. We’ve got to follow one of the rules.”

She made a face that absolutely did not belong in that current situation and Henry was jumping up and down again, the box still clutched tightly in his hands. Killian took a deep breath when Emma moved, running his fingers through his hair and resting his left hand on Henry’s shoulder.

“Thanks, kid,” he muttered, turning back towards Emma and she couldn’t breathe.

She didn’t really mind.

Killian grinned at her – any trace of smirk or joke forgotten as soon as his thumb flipped open the top of the box and Emma sat up straighter, pressing her heels into the ground like that would prove this was actually happening.

He got down on one knee.

“I’ve been hiding this behind soccer cleats for the last three weeks, so you’re already painfully aware that I didn’t really have much of a plan,” Killian started. “But this is...you are all I want, Swan. All of this. Us and this apartment and this life and charity soccer games and cookbooks and ridiculous filming schedules. I want that. Indefinitely and forever and side by side. No matter what.”  
  
He glanced over his shoulder at Henry, beaming and still jumping and Emma didn’t remember when she started to cry. “So, Emma Swan,” Killian said. “Will you marry me?”

She must have nodded and something in her brain told her to move, leaping off the couch and nearly knocking Killian off balance, but his arms caught her and Henry groaned when they started kissing again.

“Mom, Mom! You’ve got to put the ring on,” he shouted, phone out and shutter clicking and Emma did as instructed.

Killian kissed her again and then kissed her knuckles and her cheeks and her eyelids and if they never moved off the living room floor, Emma wouldn’t have minded.

They made hot chocolate and Henry fell asleep on the couch, his head on the arm and legs splayed out over both Emma and Killian. She was close to falling asleep herself, lulled into rest by Killian’s fingers tracing across her arm and the dim light reflecting off her ring.

“You never actually answered the question,” Killian said suddenly, mumbling the words into Emma’s hair. “If you want to get technical.”

“What?”  
  
“I asked you to marry me and you never actually answered. Just attack kissed me on the floor.”  
  
“Was that not an answer?” Emma asked, not quite able to hold back her laughter.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Ah, well, I thought that would be kind of obvious when I said yes before you even asked.”  
  
“You’re evading on purpose, Swan.”  
  
“I absolutely am,” she agreed, burrowing her face against him.

“An answer, Emma.”  
  
She’d probably tease him about the slightly desperate edge to his voice at some point, but they had the rest of their lives for that.

 _They had the rest of their lives for that_.

“Yes,” Emma breathed and the word seem to settle in the very middle of her or maybe on her left ring finger.

She was never going to stop smiling.

“Yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah. Just like this.”  
  
They fell asleep on the couch and made pancakes the next morning with peanut butter chips and cinnamon in their coffee and Mary Margaret screamed when Emma called her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff on fluff on fluff for this fluff monster. Ah! I had absolutely no plans of writing any of this, but I'm so glad I did and, hopefully, someday I'll venture back to this 'verse. In the meantime, Emma's got a cookbook to write and a very good looking fiancé to keep making out with on the couch. 
> 
> As always, I can't say enough about you guys and how much I appreciate every click, comment and kudos. Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know how this happened. Honestly. I was not going to write soccer fic. I'm still trying to finish Angst Fest 2k17, but then the Whitecaps game happened and, well, as Lauren put it when I told her I was writing soccer fic, "I've been waiting for this message since they announced the game."
> 
> So, I'm going to blame @laurenorder & @distant-rose who both encouraged this monstrosity of fluff and words. And there's a part two coming on Friday with Emma's POV and actual soccer. Also. Also. I know OOTFP only just recently finished posting, but this is, like, the first time I've written these characters in nearly a year, so I'm psyched to get back into it. 
> 
> Come flail on Tumblr: welllpthisishappening.tumblr.com


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